Microcosmographie, or Athens Discovered
by Phineas Redux
Summary: Xena and Gabrielle meet a cross section of the traditional citizens and trades-people of Athens.
1. Chapter 1

—OOO**—**

Xena and Gabrielle meet a cross section of the traditional citizens and trades-people of Athens.

**Note:—** The following short character studies take their format from '_Microcosmographie, or a Piece of the World Discovered_', by John Earle 1628.

**Disclaimer:—** MCA/Universal/RenPics own all copyrights to everything related to '_Xena: Warrior Princess_' and I have no rights to them.

—OOO**—**

'**Microcosmographie, or Athens Discovered**'

**1. A Baker.**

"Who's that, over there with the white apron and the, er, fat face?" Xena nodded off-handedly at a person standing at the entrance to a shop in one of the side-streets they were walking along.

"He's a baker. Got a reputation for being no better than he should be—if you catch my drift, Xena!" Gabrielle appraised the citizen with a casual glance. "They say it's always an act of charity when he, or others like him, are punished for breaking the rules."

"Breaking what rules, Gabrielle?"

"Oh, selling underweight or giving you 9 loaves instead of 10—that sort of thing." Gabrielle sniffed austerely, pretending not to notice the man as they passed. "His punishment is the prisoners good, as the saying goes."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I'm told that the last time a Clerk of the Market tested his scales and found them, er, incorrect the punishment was for some of his stock—bread, that is—to be confiscated and distributed free to prisoners in the local jail."

"Ha!" Xena was clearly tickled by the appropriateness of this punishment. "Lucky for him only his bread—an' not he personally—was sent to the lock-up. Bet he likes Charity an' Justice just about equally now!"

"Ask him what he thinks of the local pillory, and you'll be able to extend your vocabulary in a certain area, that's for sure." Gabrielle laughed and gripped her companion's wrist. "Come on. The leather-goods shop I wanna show you is down this street, somewhere. You'll love their stock."

"Lead on, darling." Xena chuckled as she increased her pace while Gabrielle led her quickly through the crowds. "_Leather-goods—_ya said the magic word!"

-O-

**2. A Catch-pole.**

There were a number of stalls, covered with a variety of common goods and some more exotic stock, on the left side of the narrow lane. In front of which were a multitude of people. Some, customers buying; some, casual passers-by shopping with their eyes and not their wallets; and some, disputatious people only too willing to cause a scene and affront the shop-owner with raillery and contempt of their goods. There were also a few who apparently felt safer in a crowd than by themselves—judging by their hangdog, wary, fearful manner. It was behind one of the latter that a large thickset man suddenly appeared, clapping a heavy hand on his victim's shoulder.

"Gotcher, damn yer!" The brawny man pulled a set of wrist-chains and cuffs from a capacious pocket and had the man secured before he could give more than a sharp whine of fear.

Xena made a motion to interfere, but Gabrielle's hand closed on her arm firmly.

"It's OK, let it be. He's a _catch-pole_—the Law!"

"Like a Centurion, or those sergeant-at-arms we've seen in other countries?" Xena pondered as the big man effortlessly guided his resigned prisoner away. "I heard them referred to as '_creditor's hawks'_ once."

"How's that, Xena?" Gabrielle turned an enquiring eye on the tall woman by her side.

"Because they seize flying birds, and fetch them in their talons to Justice." Xena sniggered at some memory. "Bet that guy thinks his captor's as bad as Hades himself. Arresting him, and bringing him to Tartarus itself, in the form of the Courts. He-He! I like that."

"Huh!" Gabrielle shook her head at Xena. "What will I do with you! Just as well it went off so quietly."

"Oh, without a fight you mean?" Xena nodded, yearningly. "Yeah, a fight would've been good. I feel like a little exercise."

"Well you ain't goin' to get it." Gabrielle's tone was firm, as they moved on down the street. "A lotta young city-blades, young tearaways—mostly those with a guilty conscience—go everywhere armed like they're going to war. Even just to stroll in the street."

"Armed to the teeth, eh." Xena nodded understandingly. "To escape being had up before a magistrate for their debts. Bet that's caused a few fights. Must be a hard life being a sergeant, or catch-pole. Getting knocked down and stomped on when some group of ne'er-do-wells try to make their escape. The injured parties probably hate the Senate an' its laws worse than Hades himself, I bet. Y'know, I'm beginning to like the sound of staying in Athens for a few days. Wanna go out for a stroll in the twilight this evening, Gabrielle? Among the late night crowds an' all."

"No chance." Gabrielle was implacable, holding her friend's arm and steering her away from another group of stalls. "Come on, we're heading in this direction. An' the only thing I'm doin' in the twilight is sitting on our balcony an' asking you to refill my wine-goblet every now and then, sister."

-O-

**3. A Tavern.**

"I'm dry." Xena suddenly stopped at the door of a disreputable looking establishment. "Let's go in here an' wet our whistles."

"Another dump." Gabrielle surveyed the exterior of the Tavern with a jaundiced eye. "Why'd you always pick such crappy places. Don't you have any taste at all?"

"Must've been my upbringing!" Xena laughed lightly, making a round-bellied man standing idly at the door jump nervously as they passed. "An' the only taste I wanna assuage at the moment is the taste for a big beaker of red wine. Young, rough, harsh on the tongue, an' overflowing with rich flavour and juices."

"Sounds more like a harl—"

"Here's the Public Room. Grab that corner bench before anyone else does." Xena headed off towards the bar. "I'll be back with ale or wine, pronto. What's your poison—heavy ale?"

"Gods, no! White Etrurian wine." Gabrielle called back quickly. "How many times do I have'ta tell you. I ain't a dock-worker, y'know."

In a surprisingly short time Xena returned, with a large tankard in one hand and a delicate glass goblet in the other.

"The servant'll be over with an amphora in a moment." Xena settled herself comfortably beside Gabrielle and looked out over the small but crowded room. "That guy at the door came behind the counter to serve me. Reckon he's the owner. Should've known, by the bright red colour of his nose."

"Hey, girl, that ain't nice." Gabrielle had assumed her lady-like mode, as she often did when in drinking company. "Just because he may partake of more of his own goods than is strictly necessary doesn't mean he's a drunken sot."

"Never said he was, darling." Xena was un-offended and un-caring, as she continued taking stock of their company. "What a bunch! D'ya think the air's rather fruity in here. Maybe you were right about this place. Most of these—_people_—don't look as if they've washed in the last week."

"Whatever you do don't ask to rent a room upstairs." Gabrielle affected to moan dismally from behind her upturned goblet. "The bed'll probably still be warm from the last incumbents; and there'll only be a rickety table an' a pottery chamber-pot under the bed—that hasn't been emptied yet!"

"Uurgh!" Xena admitted the probable truth of this statement. "Look at these people chattering away—an' what about? Mostly exchanging dubious jests rather than real news. Judging from what I can see most of 'em have brains like sponges, or are gettin' on that way. Doesn't say much for the quality of the wine. Maybe ya'd better just stick to one goblet of that stuff, Gabrielle."

As the women sat in the corner they were enveloped in a swirling cacophony, made up of loud voices striving to be heard over each other and the tinkling of glass goblets and pewter tankards as the wine flowed freely. There were some groups who had obviously reached that point where everything seemed tinged with a rosy glow—and were becoming loud with raucous singing as a result. The noise was deafening; but also appeared to be the natural atmosphere in which the Tavern operated.

"I think the wine-drawers behind the counter are the soberest people here, Xena." Gabrielle seemed quite happy, grinning as she took note of her surroundings. "It's like being at a great open-air Theatre, with masses of people from all ranks an' occupations. From the lowest to the highest. You might think all the business of the world was being transacted here. If you were of a melancholy nature an' looked askance at people generally—no, I _don't_ mean you Xena—you could imagine a great deal of matter to work on here."

"Yeah, ya could be right." Xena acknowledged the truth of this remark. "Some men I can see, like those over there, have had so much drink they've got heads like glass—an' just as easily broken. Some have come to make friends; and others to quarrel, I bet."

"A lot are just whiling away the afternoon, I think." Gabrielle pursed her lips in disapproval at a nearby group of rowdies.

"Or this is their way of spending a rainy day, entirely." Xena put in her two obols worth for fair measure. "An' the dry days in between too, just to keep their itineraries running smoothly. It's one way of gettin' through life."

"You might call it a house of sin—but hardly of darkness." Gabrielle giggled uncontrollably as the thought came to her. "Look at all these candles lighting up the room. Reminds me of the Northern Countries we've been to—where it's as clear at midnight as at midday!"

Xena nodded, glancing round good-humouredly at the interesting spectacle. Somehow she felt almost at home in taverns, and crowds, like this. As if she could name every person present individually, give their occupations, and divulge all aspects of their private lives if need be.

"I like places of this sort, Gabrielle." Xena grinned, and leaned comfortably back against the panelled wall. "See that guy over by the door? He's a business man—probably a merchant—who comes here for a kind of recreation. Then that gloomy melancholy man over by the table in the far corner—he finds a sort of sanctuary here, maybe from his private life! That well-to-do fella by the bar counter in the yellow toga—he's here for entertainment. Slumming it from his secretarial work in the Senate, probably. And those two at the table along on the right. No, don't look so obviously, Gabrielle! You're embarrassing me. The one with the patched cloak is maybe a schoolmaster; and the other's an Athenian citizen of some rank. They're probably old friends—notice the kindness of the one an' the courtesy of the other?"

"I think you may be right." Gabrielle agreed, as she too examined several individuals amongst the crowd. "And look at that man at the table across from us. And that other man along with the group who're eating a meal over there. Bet they're both regarded as sparkling wits, judging from their guffawing voices an' the way their friends are laughing like hyenas. Only instead of getting their witticisms from scrolls they get them from the wine amphora's in front of them. Not a prepossessing bunch—or are we just too picky, Xena?"

"Well, give me sense for not wanting to pick any of _these_—that's for sure!" Xena sniffed almost as ostentatiously as Gabrielle might have. "If I'm goin'ta get drunk with a bunch of deadbeats—I'd pick a better quality of deadbeat than any here."

"You know your trouble, warrior-woman?" Gabrielle reached over to collar the amphora that stood on their table. "You're too sensitive. You need a thicker skin, like I have. Oh look, this is empty. So, who's going to buy the next round, eh?"

-O-

**4. A Shark.**

While Xena was away replenishing their drinks Gabrielle took the opportunity to scrutinize several interesting individuals scattered at random throughout the long malodorous room. And there were more than a few worthy of examination, for a variety of reasons. At one point a scruffy looking ruffian, of some bulk, stopped at her table and made an ill-mannered suggestion with brutal frankness and crudity. In response Gabrielle merely bent to the shoulder-bag lying at her feet and produced an apple which she set on the table before her. Then she bent once more, to straighten again with a long-bladed sai which she ostentatiously used to cut the apple in pieces. Halfway through this exercise she paused to glance up at her beaux, and quietly raise one eyebrow enquiringly. Having already turned pale and stepped back out of harm's way the ruffian promptly took this opportunity to disappear hurriedly into the crowd.

"Another suitor lost." Gabrielle muttered softly to herself, as she returned to the apple. "Was it something I said—or should I change my perfume?"

"Ya smell divine, darling. Like a whole bunch of daisies and roses and honeysuckle." Xena sat back down, placing another goblet of wine in front of her companion. "What were ya up to in my absence? Nothing naughty, I hope."

"Nah, didn't get a chance." Gabrielle could keep up her end of this gentle to-and-fro repartee with Xena indefinitely. "But there was a guy who tried to make himself comfortable a short while ago. You just missed him."

"What, that big oaf with the sneer?"

"Nah, I got rid of _him_ without any trouble." Gabrielle shook her head disparagingly, as if annoyed at being thought incapable of dealing with jerks. "It was another man, earlier. Look, he's sitting over there now. See, beside the man in the yellow cloak who's looking irritated. It's the chap who's talking to him I mean. The long-haired sorta nervous guy in the green leather leggings."

"Yeah, I got him." Xena gazed penetratingly across the room. "So, what was he up to with ya?"

"Oh, nothing." Gabrielle shrugged, as she offered a piece of apple to the dark-haired warrior. "The kinda person who's full of themselves, with no shame. I think he's the sorta guy who uses more stratagems and guiles to squeeze a meal out of a chance acquaintance than a general does to win a war."

"Urrh, I know the sort." Xena nodded compassionately. "Sometimes they just won't take no for an answer, an' ya can't get rid of them."

"Yeah, as if the whole World's cast him aside—like a drowning man—but he fastens on anything or anybody to hand, and won't let go." Gabrielle heaved a sigh. "What a nuisance. He came up, as easy as you please, called me '_Myrtle'_ and pretended to have met me at a party in a Senator's house three months ago. Then he sat down an' brazenly asked what was for lunch—and praised the grilled beef here! After which he sat back with that sort of expectant look, as if the next move was mine. Why are you sniggering, Xena?"

"No, no, sorry. Something in my throat. A bit of apple went down the wrong way." Xena tried to scramble back to the moral high ground. "The sort who'll offer you a pot of wine, then leave you to pay for it. He'll fumble with the strings of his money-pouch so long you just have to cough up the cost yourself! Yeah, been there."

Gabrielle looked across at the shark's latest victim with compassion. It was quite obvious he had settled at the far table for a long stay. The man with the yellow cloak, to whom he was speaking, had taken on the air of someone prepared to offer almost any amount of money; if he could only be sure it would make the man go away for good.

"I think if anyone was stupid enough to send him to a friend's house with a letter, he would take a kind thank-you as an invitation to stay on as a half-boarder for as long as he could." Gabrielle sniffed austerely. "I bet most citizens around here shun him in the street like a pestilence, crossing over the way to avoid him; or run down a side-alley!"

"He looks as if he's clung to those clothes he's wearing too long, as well." Xena gave the man one last contemptuous glance, as she brought the unsavoury topic to an end. "So, how'd ya get rid of him then?"

"Oh, that was easy." Gabrielle looked into Xena's blue eyes with her own orbs of innocent sea-green. "I nodded across towards that man in the yellow cloak at the far table an' told the shark the poor guy was someone important I knew, who'd expressed great interest in meeting a man he's heard so much good talked off from ever so many acquaintances!"

Xena coughed and spluttered uncontrollably at this astonishing confession.

"Gabrielle!—Gabrielle!—Gabri—"

"Yes, Xena?"

"Fill my tankard from that ale-beaker, would ya. To the brim." Xena gave up the fight. She knew when she was beat. "I need a strong drink—or two, or three!"

**End.**

—OOO**—**

**Note:—**My copy of John Earle's '_Microcosmographie_' lists 78 character-studies, so there's plenty more to come if the above 4 meet with approval.

—OOO**—**


	2. Shops & Shoppers

'**Shops & Shoppers**'

**Note:—** John Earle's short essays in '_Microcosmographie_' mostly describe men & their trades.

—OOO**—**

**5. The Stoa of Attalos.**

"Let's head for the Agora." Gabrielle steered Xena up the narrow lane when they left the Tavern, after their short sojourn for refreshments. Her eyes sparkling with excitement and anticipation as they navigated the crowds. "I wanna visit the Stoa and do some _real_ shopping."

"Thank the Gods we've got some real money, anyway." Xena, on her part sighed resignedly. She knew once Gabrielle was inside the famous two-storied block of shops there was no way she was going to leave empty-handed. "And don't grab at everything, like ya usually do. Pick an' choose, like a Lady. And Gabrielle—_manners!_"

"Yeah, yeah—hurry up." The blonde obviously had her mind focussed on the important issue. "We need'ta get there before the crowds build up. We'll visit that leather-goods shop later in the afternoon. Come on."

The Stoa of Attalos took up one side of the Agora and at this time of day, late morning, was crowded with citizens, soldiers, merchants, Senators, and country-folk in town to sell their wares and produce. The noise was terrific, echoing off the surrounding marble buildings as if they were cliff-faces.

It was a relief to enter the cloister-like passage, with its row of columns facing the Agora, that ran along the front of the building. On the left side of this covered passage were numerous high doorways leading into the premises of a variety of shops of all types. As they strolled past the two women took stock of their surroundings and the other shoppers.

"I've heard people say this place is a sort of epitome of the Land, writ small." Gabriele gabbled happily as she pushed passers-by out of her way unmercifully. "Like a sorta lesser picture of Greece itself. It's like a map of the whole world. Y'can discern this in the perfect jostling and turning of everyone in the crowd, don't you think?"

"Yeah." Xena nodded, her greater height allowing her to see further over the heads of the throng around them. "It's just a heap of stones maybe, an' a lot of men an' women; but with a vast confusion of languages, just like Babel. D'you hear that—I said, d'you hear that, Gabrielle? It's like being in a swarm of bees; a strange sorta humming or buzz, made up of clattering feet, an' people talking. A kind of what ya might call a _still_ roar, or maybe a _loud_ whisper."

"Yeah, know what you mean." Gabrielle paused briefly to smile at her companion. "Kinda getting poetic, ain't you. Must be the lure of the shops; all this potential shopping affecting your mind! Like the call of the chase, but without the bloodshed—or at least most of the time."

"I think a lotta these people may be here on business, mind you." Xena glanced into the faces of several men and women as they carried on along the stone corridor. "A sort of Exchange of discourse; no kind of business whatsoever that isn't stirring and afoot here, judging by some of these groups. A sorta _areopagus_ of the politically opinionated; come together in a most serious posture, judging from some of their expressions. Bet the Senators aren't half so busy in the Senate-House as these people chattering here."

They paused by one of the doors, where some stalls showed examples of fine cloth and silk laid out for inspection.

"It's like a fancy play or Festival." Gabrielle herself now waxed poetic, obviously inspired by the milling throng. "Everyone tail to tail, or back to back; and for play-masks you simply look at the countless faces. I think some of these folk are here to offer their services, too. I mean for _work_. Look at that young fella talking to the big matron over there. Maybe she's in the market for a lecturer or teacher for her children, an' she's cheapening the rates and pay of the possible applicants."

"You could be right." Xena nodded in agreement, as she idly let a piece of silk slither through her fingers. "This place is probably a hothouse of famous lies, like brand new coins, first-stamped in the Mint here. Everybody's got their own tales and inventions to boast of to someone; people's imaginations are emptied here, an' not a few pockets too, I bet. Mind ya keep a tight grip on your money-pouch, girl,—this place is a pick-pocket's Elysium Field. Thieves can rob more safely, here in the crowd, than in a wilderness; as Autolycus would be the first to admit. They'll grab your money, then almost anyone in this seething mass would act as a bush to cover their escape."

Gabrielle laughed lightly at Xena's words; though her right hand stole to the shoulder-pouch hanging at her side just the same. Then she leaned across and took hold of Xena's wrist, prising the warrior's fingers apart with a gentle imperiousness.

"Put that piece'a silk down." Gabrielle glanced disapprovingly at the bit of material she had made Xena give up. "Light blue, with small orange spots. Great Aphrodite, so it's true—you really have no taste whatsoever. Poor girl."

"Awwh, gim'me a break." Xena sniffed in disdain. "I ain't that bad. Look'it what I'm wearing right now."

"Ah hum, and that is—what?" Gabrielle was uncompromising in her assessment of the warrior's accoutrements, as she ostentatiously stepped back to view her victim. "Let's see. Black boots—black skirt, a trifle short for this season, don't you think—black top and breast-plate—and black hair. Oh, I get it! Does what it says on the scroll-cover, but still a teensy unimaginative maybe?"

Xena, knowing full well she was in a no-win situation, stuck her chin in the air and turned her back on her critic to enter the dim recesses of the shop. But this gave no reprieve for Gabrielle simply followed her, with a little smirk of triumph flickering at the edges of her lips.

"There's a lot of people about, ain't there. Out in the Agora, an' in here." Gabrielle resumed the main topic of interest without a stumble, as she joined her better half at one of the long counters covered in colourful wares. "A wonder everyone has the time. It's the other expense of the day, I suppose. After visiting a play at the theatre; various Taverns; and a quick stopover at the local bawdy-house. Men still have a few—oaths—leftover to swear here. A kinda brothel for the ear; satisfying their lust an' itch for chatting and arguing mindlessly, I suppose."

"Gabrielle!" Xena was shocked at this forthright appraisal of the passing throng. "You're gettin' snarky in your old age, ain't ya?"

"Huh!" The blonde Amazon laughed, completely at ease. "Come on, let's go back out into the corridor an' sit on one of the benches against the wall. I like looking at the crowds in the Agora in comfort."

They found an empty bench and Gabrielle dumped her shoulder-bag at her feet with a contented sigh, then sat beside the black-clad warrior. No-one else seemed minded to join them; perhaps because of the threatening scowl Xena aimed mercilessly at anyone silly enough to harbour the intention. They could see between the groups of passing shoppers to the crowds outside in the sunshine of the wide Agora; and both women crossed their feet, with legs comfortably extended, ignoring the somewhat muted words of disapproval from inconvenienced passers-by.

"D'ya realise a lot of the shoppers here seem'ta be men?" Xena asked the question contentedly; without feeling much need of an answer.

"Yeah, the point had not escaped my highly-trained Amazon faculties." Gabrielle _had_ noticed, and was working on a theory. "I'm surprised a mere gadabout warrior-for-hire observed it."

"I'll get'cha for that, little girl." Xena's voice was quiet, but held oceans of intent. "Sometime—somewhere—in the dark of the night—when ya least expect it—I'll get'ya good!"

"The principal inhabitants an' possessors of this place, at the moment, seem t'be shabby stale warlords and captains out of service." Gabrielle continued smoothly on, ignoring this threat with Queenly disdain. "Men with long rapiers and swords, and long breeches, too. Whatever their trade they all turn merchants here, trafficking for the news of the day. I imagine some probably come here as a preface to their dinners, taking a stroll to work up an appetite. But the thriftier men make it their tavern; eating at the low-price food-stalls, and probably boarding cheaply by sleeping on the benches when everyone's gone home at night."

"Well, at least the sleepers won't be haunted by hobgoblins." Xena laughed softly at a thought suggested by Gabrielle's remark. "A ghost couldn't walk more than these crowds do here every day and evening! Come on, d'ya wanna go out into the Agora an' grab some rays?"

"Grab some rays! What a common slang. You make a career outta embarrassing me, don't 'cha?" Gabrielle sniffed with ascetic delicacy, but rose to her feet all the same. "You know full well girls like me, with gorgeous blonde hair; frighteningly beautiful green eyes; and a pure snow-like delicate white skin, have to be very careful of the sun. I mean, I might get a freckle. Or worse still a deep bronze tan like a farmer's daughter. Where'd your love be then, if I looked like a farmer's daughter?"

Xena stopped in her tracks to regard the woman at her side with cool detachment, then took the courage of madness and said what she was thinking.

"Would that be a step up, or a step down, then? _Aowwch!_ That hurt."

-O-

**Note:—** The above is based on John Earle's essay '_Paul's Walk_', which describes the 17th century social crowds who were in the daily habit of unconcernedly milling about the aisles of the medieval St Paul's Cathedral, London; which was later a victim of the Great Fire of London in 1666. I changed this to the Agora & Stoa, as being a more realistic Athenian setting.

Areopagus. This was the early Court of Law & Council of Elders of Athens.

-O-

**6. An Idle Gallant.**

The panoramic setting of the Agora wasn't just an open square but also more or less of a market-place; with a variety of stalls catering to all and every possible wish of the Athenian appetite. And amongst this vista of merchant enterprise the crowds moved with fervour and purpose. An Athenian shopper was a determined shopper, after Gabrielle's own heart. She was in a rapture of delight, holding Xena's wrist with almost painful strength and glee as they mingled.

"Gods, look at that character!" Gabrielle nodded in the direction of a young dandy in a bright toga and clearly expensive leather boots. "If clothes had never been invented his life would have no purpose."

"Cutting—sharp—and highly personal. Yep, you're in fine fettle today, lady." Xena wondered as she spoke what her punishment would ultimately be, but it had to be said.

"I'm just a mirror, reflecting what I see." Gabrielle curled her lip unashamedly. "His first care is for his clothes, anyone can see that—even you, Xena. The second's for his body. Just look at that long curly hair. He must have spent all morning in the barbers-shop. His whole soul and thought is aimed at that only. I bet he swans about Athens more determinedly than the politicians and soldiers. His business is strolling in the street, and the theatre is his Court; where he thinks a proper man is best shown to advantage."

"Hmm, what was in that wine you drank back at the tavern, I wonder." Xena scratched her lip, and let the Sage of Potidaea carry on.

"I bet he's qualified in gaming and, er, betting." She expanded on her new-found hobby of social critic, stumbling a little over her phrases in her excitement to make a point. "He thinks it makes his standing in society more complete, and more of a gentleman. Probably learns all the latest curses and oaths too, for the purpose of astounding his friends. Humph! His other talk'll be about ladies and such pretty things, or some latest jest at a play—I know his sort."

"Did you ever have a broken romance when you were a young girl, Gabri—"

"Notice how his toothpick bears a great part in his discourse, as does his body." The blonde Harpy ignored this minor interruption, continuing with added vigour. "The upper parts of which are as starched as his linen, and probably use the same laundress—"

"Hey, come on Gabrielle." Xena was wondering how much more the usually kind and gentle Amazon was going to shock her today. "Be nice."

"D'you see how he smiles most because of his boots, Xena?" Gabrielle was unremitting. She had obviously decided that if she was going to criticise this posturing fool she was going to give of her best. "He takes great delight in his walk, just to hear his spurs jingle. Ha!"

Xena looked about the crowded square, but they were trapped by the throng and there did not seem any easy route of escape. She began to pass over in her mind the activities of the day that she and Gabrielle had been involved in; searching for some trigger that had started this descent into capriciousness and sarcasm by her usually tranquil companion. She glanced quickly at the deep blue sky. Maybe Gabrielle had indeed, for once, had too much sun.

"His life passes somewhat slidingly, but he seems very careful of the time." Like a shark, Gabrielle continued to feed on every small tid-bit. "Look, Xena, did you see him pull one of those new-fangled pocket sundials outta his pouch? Bet he spends most of his day numbering the hours, ha!"

"What we need, darling, is a change of scenery." Xena acted with determined ruthlessness, firmly grasping the shoulder of the vituperative censor of Society and propelling her in the direction of the Agora's exit. "A nice quiet lie-down in a cool dark room, with birds singing in the beech trees in the garden below the balcony window. That'll work wonders."

"That guy's the sort who's never serious except with his tailor, that's obvious." Gabrielle allowed herself to be thrust forward, but all the same twisted her body to look back over her shoulder at her victim. "Probably holds conspiracies with him about the next coming device or fashion style. Bet he has more jests at his fingertips than some wandering priest has sermons. Three for every congregation or company he keeps. Especially against Scholars, who he finds much ridiculous—"

Xena glanced over her shoulder too, but the object of the Amazon Queen's curious diatribe was still plainly in view. In the meantime, though slurring her words and showing signs of being winded, the blonde warrior carried bravely on.

"—whom he knows by no other definition than _that silly fellow in black_." She took a deep breath; kept her eye on the fast disappearing form of the dandy now thankfully almost lost in the crowd; glanced at Xena with an unhinged giggle, and found something new to say about her pet hate. "Look'it him—he's just a kind of walking mercer's shop, a tailor's delight. He'll have one fashion today, an' another tomorrow. A sorta ornament to the rooms he enters, like the fair bed or the arras and wall-hangings. He's probably rated by the city tax-collectors in the same way as any house; but by his fifty or hundred drachma toga's."

"We're nearly home, Gabrielle." Xena sighed in relief as she saw the door of their comfortable Inn in the distance, along the quiet side-street they were now walking down.

But, though now shorn of visible sight of her nemesis-like prey, the blonde tiger at Xena's side had one last savagery to let loose.

"His main ambition'll be to join the oligarchy of gentlemen who run the city-state. And then get an old lady of substance, which if he's happy with he'll fill the stage and a fine coach all the longer. Otherwise he and his clothes'll grow stale together. And he'll probably be buried in the common part of the cemetery, just before he dies in the jail or somewhere in the country where he's fled to escape his debtors. I've got a headache, Xena. Xena, do you have a headache, I do. Oh look, we're home at last—ain't that nice. Xena, what should I do? I respect your advice, you know that don'tcha warrior-woman. So, Xena, what should I do—throw up, or fall down?"

The brave Amazon forestalled Xena's reply by suddenly slumping in her friend's arms—the newest member of Morpheus's realm.

-O-

"I'm glad to see you back, Madame Xena." The tall slim figure of their hostess appeared in the Inn's entrance hall as the warrior returned downstairs from putting an unconscious Amazon to bed. "Was your friend sleepy? Anyway I wanted to give you some news that might be of some import to you. Early this morning, just after you and Gabrielle had left to enjoy yourselves, a note came from the Clerk of the Market. He has authority over the Inns and Taverns and wine-business, you know. Well, it was to say that several barrels of Etrurian wine had been found to be contaminated by some sort of fungus. Anyone who drinks it will probably become a little dis-oriented and, the note explained, maybe sarcastic and difficult to handle for a while—till the, er, effects wear off. But there's no long term harm involved—just a Tartarus-like headache for a day or so afterwards. Can I get you anything, Madame Xena?"

"No, thank you." Xena heaved a sigh full of misery and turned to retrace her steps to the room where her patient lay. "I'm just going upstairs. I may be some time!"

-O-

**Note:—** The above, including all Gabrielle's savage criticisms, is substantially taken almost word for word from John Earle's essay '_A Gallant_', from the '_Microcosmographie_'.

The last section is my addition, to give some reason for Gabrielle's uncharacteristic vituperation of all those she so caustically observed.

—OOO**—**


	3. Feeling Low

'**Feeling Low'**

—OOO**—**

**7. A Mere Physician.**

"A headache?"

"Yeah, a headache." Xena tried painting the problem in a wider context. "A pain in the head!"

"In her head."

"Yeeah. That's where her headache is." The warrior was beginning to rapidly lose faith in the expertise of the richly dressed stoutish man who had answered the call for medical assistance that afternoon. "Sorta—y'know—in her, er, head. Ya know what I mean?"

"Her head. A headache. Are you quite sure?" The physician had brought a deep bag with leather handles, which he now bent to rummage in. "You don't think, perhaps, she may be suffering from a Tertiary fever? There's been a lot of that about recently. I have a sovereign rem—"

"NO! I mean—no." Xena barely managed to control her rising temper. "She drank some bad wine. She had a nasty reaction to it. Now she's got a headache Hades would be proud of. She needs something to take the pain away."

"Ah—a _headache_. I feel we may be making progress. Coming closer to the root of the problem, as it were." The man straightened again, with a smile and a curiously ominous looking dark blue glass bottle grasped in one hand. "Perhaps a few drops of this my special potion, and we shall begin to see results?"

"Potion?" Xena was doubtful; highly so; if not yet downright suspicious. "What's in it? Poppies? Essence of mandragora? It's not one of those mixtures made up of spirits of crushed toadstools? You can't give Gabrielle anything like that!"

The Physician raised a hand to set his round velvet cap straight on a balding head and looked distressed.

"I have taken my education in medicine at the Academy, madam." He managed to sound pompous, sad, and forgiving all at once. "I have read all that Galen or Hippocrates have to say on all matters medicinal. I have discoursed with the Heads of my Profession and not, I feel myself capable of admitting, been found wanting in knowledge of even the most curious matters. Take for instance the application of soothing marigold and coltsfoot ointment in the treating of pile—"

"Doctor, I'm not a student." Xena snapped his reminiscences off short just in time. "Gabrielle, on the other hand, still has a headache."

"Ah yes, to be sure, a headache." He looked at the sleeping Amazon, whose brow showed a slight perspiration. "I fear we must do something about that."

"A cooling medicinal draught, perhaps?" Xena's patience was by now almost non-existent. "Maybe a light concoction of poppies? That'll work wonders, won't it? Or maybe I need'ta consult a physician who knows what he's—who has a wider experience of this sorta thing."

Xena was beginning to believe that the best cure this fraud had ever done was on his own purse. From a likely lean sickliness he had made it full-fleshed and lusty with the accumulated savings of his high fee's. His learning probably didn't extend further than being able to recite the hard names of various diseases for effect; or read the labelled superscriptions on the gallypots of ointments lining the shelves in his Apothecary's shop. She even suspected now he didn't really know what he was talking about when he spoke of various maladies, using what he boldly affirmed to be the correct technical language.

There was also a rising doubt in her mind that any reputation he had was primarily as a result of having been present, in some minor role, at another more renowned physician's success—of which the present half-wit had been given some of the credit. Thus allowing him to enlarge his practice and reputation with many more clients. His self-vaunted skill—Xena was starting to think—answered more to his own personal opinion only, rather than reliable medical knowledge.

"Ah madam, it is quite clear to me you are not cogniscent of the deeper mysteries of the Art of Medicine." He shook his head sadly. "If you place such constraints on my methods I must fall back on what little else I can."

Xena had begun to regret sending for this particular Physician almost as soon as he had arrived. He did not seem someone whom you could have any strong faith in. He began to appear, to the hardened warrior, like one of those imposters who once called in would never leave examining their patient till they had shaken their mild symptoms into some exotic disease. Then he would write out a prescription, that was unreadable though he pretends to do so, to be sent urgently to his druggist-assistant at his shop.

The idea took form in Xena's mind that his presence was the worst visitation; if he wasn't able to heal Gabrielle's sickness, he would be sure to help it along from brute ignorance.

"She is, as I thought, suffering a mild—merely a mild—attack of Tertiary constriction of the Nervous Humours. I have seen and dealt with many such. A middling emetic—nothing _too_ severe, I assure you—which is what I have in this blue bottle, administered three times a day will afford relief of the stomach's distemper and removal of the Hot Vapours." He actually smiled with self-importance, as if offering all the secrets of the East to his staring disbelieving audience. "It is of course, madam, the Hot Vapours which are at the seat of our patient's present disablement. I would advise a large bucket to hand—a few towels—no solid food for four days—and only a small goblet, the least amount, of raw uncooked bull's blood mixed with goat's milk twice a day for a week. I have every faith in this regime, madam. I am quite certain you will see an _extraordinary_ change in the young woman by the end of the course! That will be three drachma's for my visit; five drachma's for the emetic; three drachma's for the bull's blood and goat's milk, which I will have sent in religiously each day—and two drachma's for my prescriptive writ which I shall just sit here and scribble out now to be sent to my Apothecary's shop. Which comes to thirteen drachma's in all, if you please, madam. If the lady shows no very great improvement after four days I shall be pleased to return and provide a much stronger emetic. After all, madam, I firmly hold by the Emperor _Vespasian's_ rule—_that no gain is unsavoury_!"

For a few seconds Xena was struck speechless. Absolutely unable to make a sound. Her jaw may even have dropped with astonishment at the fool's brazen presumption of expertise. Then, drawing a deep breath, she regained control of her emotions.

"If _you_ were called in to treat someone with a cold I don't doubt that, by great good endeavour and mighty diligence, you may bring them some moment of relief; but I doubt it. I wouldn't even put it past you, in a sorta unfaithful act, to leave a patient gasping for life and pretend that Death and you have a quarrel and mustn't meet in person!" Xena stood over the now cowering man, snarling with anger. "Anatomies and other spectacles of mortality have hardened you and you're no more struck by a patient's funeral than the gravedigger. Noblemen, no doubt, merely use you for a director of their stomachs and appetites; and some Ladies for wantonness, if you're by way of being a proper man—which I beg to doubt. I bet if you have a female Apothecary you're in league with her. Yeah, _that_ way! And because it's you, a Physician, her husband's patiently unknowing!* If ya ever have leisure to be idle and study I bet ya have a smatch at Alchemy. You're probably just sick with chasing the Philosopher's Stone. That's a disease that's incurable, except by an abundant phlebotomy of the purse! How much ill-gained money d'ya spend trying to make more by chemistry and spells? You're pitiful. Your two main opposites are a Mountebank actor who plays his part openly, not like you by stealth, and a good woman. Ya probably never show your learning so well as in invectives against them, just for being so morally different and superior to you. In conclusion, you're nothing but a sucking consumption yourself, and a brother to the worms; for _they're_ engendered out of Humanity's corruption too!"

Having exhausted her rhetoric she leant over to pick up the heavy bag he had brought with him and, turning, threw it effortlessly through the window. There was a horrible splintering crash as it hit the wide street, along with a cacophony of outrage and cries of anger from those passers-by it had just missed. The warrior then took the snivelling man by the scruff of his neck; grabbed his belt at the back and marched him out of the sickroom to the top of the stairs. Repressing, with regret, the urge to throw him bodily downstairs she instead dragged him to the Inn's entrance and gave him a parting kick into the street. He picked himself up dazedly and stood by the shattered wreck of his bag of equipment and potions, staring in disbelief and terror. Then, seeing an unforgiving glint in the warrior's eye and a propensity in her stance to come out and continue her chastisement, he turned and ran faster than he had probably ran in a decade along the street; seeking a hypothetical safety in distance. There was a last puff of dust; a faint shriek of fear far away; and he was gone, never to return.

"Don't worry." Xena assured the lady Inn-keeper back in the entrance hall. "I was just gettin' rid of some rubbish from our room. I'm goin'ta give Gabrielle a dose of some poppy tonic I've got wrapped up in one of my saddle-bags. Just remembered it was there a moment ago; could'a saved a lotta trouble if I'd thought of it earlier. Made it myself; guaranteed to work instantly, without any ill-effects. Gabrielle'll be almost as right as rain in an hour or two; an' then she'll probably raid your kitchen searching for vegetable soup, in bucket-loads—so be prepared!"

-O-

'Noblemen—unknowing'.** [Earle's original essay:—**'_Noblemen use him for a director of their stomacks, and Ladies for wantonnesse, especially if hee bee a proper man._ _If he be single, he is in league with his Shee-Apothecary, and because it is the Physitian, the husband is Patient_._'_**— **dear reader, make of that what you will! I kept the paragraph in for completeness; though I'm not quite sure I've hit the right meaning.**]**

Philosopher's Stone. A legendary alchemical substance said to be capable of turning base metals into gold.

—OOO—

**8. A Handsome Hostess.**

Xena had come downstairs, in the late afternoon, to chat idly with her hostess for a short while. Gabrielle was now sitting up in bed; mopping her forehead with a damp cloth; snarling pitifully every now and then when her head gave a twinge; and starting to give orders for the fabled vegetable soup, to be made strictly to _her_ recipe and instructions. Xena had taken a break to escap—leave her patient in peace for a while, and had engaged the lady owner of the Inn in a discussion which had come round to the other city Inns owned by women.

"There's the '_Vineyard_' Inn two streets away, as you say." The tall hostess ran a hand through her long brown hair. She was dressed in a becoming brown chiton and good leather sandals. "But I can't recommend it, at all."

"Oh, why's that." Xena sat at a table in the public-room; which at this time of day was almost deserted, with the lady at her side.

"The Hostess there—I use the term generally, you understand,—is rather, er, open with her wares, if you catch my drift." The lady shifted nervously on her chair and sipped genteely from her goblet of white wine. "She is all that might be expected from such a one, and nothing more."

"Ah, a place of assigna—"

"One mustn't imply what can't be proved, I'm sure." The lady interrupted hurriedly. "But all the same—"

"All the same—what?" Xena smiled slightly, amused at the almost prim deportment of her hostess. "Gimme an impression of her. What's she like? I mean, if Gabrielle and I come to Athens again, we might need to stay there with her for one reason or another. What's her character like?"

The lady glanced at the dark warrior, as if wondering if she was being made fun of; but Xena remained blank-faced; favouring the woman with what she fondly thought was an expression of mild interest: though others might have taken it for a gloomy scowl.

"Well," The lady took heart from Xena's tone of voice, if not actually her expression. "I think the fairer commendation of any Inn should be the Hostess's moral character, above the fair Sign or fair lodgings to be had within. But Selena,—that's her name, the owner of the '_Vineyard_',—is more of a loadstone that attracts men of iron, soldiers of low sort, gallants and roarers; where they cleave sometimes long to her attractions, personal as well as business, and occasionally are not easily got to leave, I believe."

"Ha!" Xena's reply attempted to be both critical and worldly-wise at the same time.

"Her lips are commonly your welcome, man or woman." The brown-haired lady, on her part, tried to sound both shocked and open-minded simultaneously. "Anyway, your entertainment is usually her company eventually: which is put into the final reckoning too, and is the dearest parcel in it!"

"Oh dear." Xena remained blandly non-commital as her hostess continued with re-newed vigour.

"No citizen's wife is demurer than she at the first greeting, nor draws in her mouth with a chaster simper." The Hostess took a gulp of wine to lubricate her throat, as she began to wax eloquent on the real meat of her disapproval. "But have no fear, you may be more familiar without distaste on her part. She won't be startled at any bawdry, I assure you. She gives small measure from her bottles of Sack-wine, making her customers pay more than would have been spent elsewhere. Her lightly-filled tankards are accepted to have her kisses, and more in private, excuse them. She may be an honest woman, but I know of no-one in this City-District who believe's so! And no man is a greater Infidel in it, for his part, than her husband!"

The lady appeared to have reached the conclusion of her character-study of her nearby rival, and took a final swig of wine; placing the goblet back on the table with an air of moral righteousness firmly upheld. She rose, nodding in thanks to the warrior, then turned and sailed in majesty across the room to vanish through the door leading to the kitchens.

"Well," Xena spoke mildly, to no-one in particular; mostly because there was actually no-one now left in the room apart from herself. "I'll just be gettin' along back to Gabrielle, then. Everybody round here seems t'be goin' about just fallin' over themselves t'love each other, that's fer sure. What a day!"

-O-

**Notes:—** Roarers. The Elizabethan (1540's-1600) slang term "_roaring boy_", was applied to a young man who caroused publicly, brawled, and committed petty crimes out of bravado. See '_The Roaring Girl_' 1611, a comedy play by Thomas Middleton & Thomas Dekker.

'_final reckoning_'. The bill.

**Postscript:—** I thought readers might be interested in the primary sources from which I am working; so I quote here the full un-edited short character study by John Earle, first printed in 1628, from which I made the above trans-literation:—

-O-

'_**A Handsome Hostesse**_'

'Is the fairer commendation of an Inne, above the faire Signe, or faire Lodgings. She is the Loadstone that attracts men of Iron, Gallants and Roarers, where they cleave sometimes long, and are not easily got off. Her Lips are your wel-come, and your entertainement her companie, which is put into the reckoning too, and is the dearest parcell in it: No Citizens wife is demurer then shee at the first greeting, nor drawes in her mouth with a chaster simper, but you may be more familiar without distaste, and shee do's not startle at Baudry. She is the confusion of a Pottle of Sacke more then would have been spent els-where, and her little Jugs are accepted, to have her Kisse excuse them. She may be an honest woman, but is not beleev'd so in her Parish, and no man is a greater Infidel in it then her Husband.'

—OOO—


	4. Autolycus's Friends

'**Autolycus's Friends'**

—OOO**—**

**9. A Discontented Man.**

"HEY, YOU!"

In the distance, across the wide street, the tall slim man peered around searching for the source of this gay bellow of recognition; then Autolycus, for it was indeed the King of Thieves, got his bearings and waved cheerily in reply: while several passers-by, out for an evening stroll, finished jumping nervously at the loud threatening female voice; obviously a lot of guilty conscience's chancing to be near at that moment. Xena had easily spotted the disreputable reproba—old friend moving amongst the crowd of his potential vict—other people in the street.

"Hi, so what're _you_ doin' in the jolly old metropolis?" Autolycus grabbed a chair from the table next to them, just as a fat toga'ed man was preparing to park himself there, and settled comfortably beside the dark warrior. "How's life? How's your fiscal situation? How's your work schedule? How's Gabby? What's the chances of your lending a fella 300 drachmas? What'cha doing here, anyway?"

"Not bad. None of your business. Middling, we get along. She's standing right behind ya, ask her yourself. Not a hope in Hades. Why'd ya wanna know? Got plans, have ya?"

"Humph! Oh hi, Gabby." Auto swivelled round to favour the Amazon with a wide grin, twisting his moustache automatically the while; he liked to create an impression. "Is that a quart pot you've brought. Ho garcon, another tankard here, if you please. Yes, thanks, I will join you."

"Is that some sorta skin disease y'got on your upper lip? Stop scratchin' it." Gabrielle settled comfortably beside Xena and surveyed their friend's appearance. "One button missing on your jerkin; your shirt's seen better days; your left boot has a ripped toe; and is that a bruise by your right ear. Somebody's been chasin' you, haven't they. T'get their money back, no doubt!"

The middle-age—still youthful at heart adventurer honoured the girl with a pained expression, as he took a long deep pull at his tankard. Then, before replying, he glanced round carefully; studying the nearby tables for signs of injured party's whom he might have recently annoyed.

"The thing is, Gabby, I've sorta fallen into a short hiatus economically speaking." He somehow managed to look crestfallen yet absolutely blameless simultaneously. "_You_ know."

"Hiatus? What's that? And no, we don't know." Xena curled a derogatory lip. "If this goes on much longer, Auto, we won't be searching for pursuers in the crowds; we'll be lookin' for a single un-offended citizen among the crowds of pursuers after ya!"

Gabrielle started gurgling uncontrollably as she leaned over her tankard, a stream of ale spattering on the wooden table-top from her lips. Gasping for air she raised a hand and indicated the others should carry on without her for a while.

"Hey, that ain't fair, Xena." Auto was incensed, frowning in disgust. "And you can stop chortling too, young lady. I'm a business-man in a crisis, that's what it is. Anyone could'a had the same bad luck. All I need is a small loan, just to tide me over."

"Not from us, dearie." Xena was adamant, as she passed the blonde choking Amazon a cloth to wipe her face. "Ain't there anyone left in this city who'd be foolish enough to believe your lie—business propositions?"

"I shouldn't a' thought by this time there was anyone left in Greece daft enough to stay in the same room as Auto, if they saw him coming first!" This pithy character assassination tripped merrily off the Amazon's lips as she regarded the gloomy man, now busy emptying his tankard. "What you need, Auto, is a business-management executive. Someone who'll keep you on the straight and narrow. Ever thought of giving it all up and marrying some nice Boeotian girl, an' raising chickens?"

The dark-haired gentleman-thief favoured this proposition with the contempt it deserved. Pushing his empty tankard away he leaned both forearms comfortably on the table and took up the burden of the last question.

"Funny you should ask." He shrugged his shoulders gloomily. "Over the last day or so I've been, er, re-assessing my potential investors."

"Tryin' to squeeze money outta innocent people, shop-owners an' the like, y'mean." Xena, along with Gabrielle, had his line well focussed; hardly surprisingly, after so many years of suffering—being his friend.

"Clients, Xena, clients." The proto-entrepreneur continued, unruffled. "Of which there are a great variety in this city. An' I could give you a running commentary on several from my recent personal experience. Take, for instance, Aristophanus the merchant. He's loaded. I mean, with a percentage of the Cyclades wine-harvest what can you expect. I heard tell he paved the floor of his hallway with silver drachmas? Can you believe that."

"No." Xena was robustly indifferent.

"No." Came an Amazonian echo. "Tell me, Auto, is this the seven hundred and first, or the seven hundred and second, tall tale you've foisted on us in the last two years? Just wanna check."

"Blondes, ain't they just impossible t'live with, Xena?" Autolycus ignored the glare this unguarded remark produced and carried on with his memoirs. "Anyway, Aristophanus. Awash with loot, swimming in sesterces, a sea of drachmas curling like waves round his ankles at every step he takes; but is he happy—does he fling his ill-gotten gains wholesale amongst the deserving classes with gay abandon—does he Hades! A more discontented man you have never met in your life."

"Was that before or after he made _your_ acquaintance?" Xena was determined to keep the tone of critical disbelief going.

"He's about 35, dresses like a Prince, an' lives in a palatial villa." Autolycus overlooked Xena's snappish retort with stately grandeur. "I've had three face to face interviews; and I can categorically announce he is fallen out with the world, and will be revenged if it kills him. He thinks Fortune has denied him in something, the Gods know what, and is in a pet of resentment and will continue miserable in spite of his riches. Having had the bad luck to sit at the same dinner table with him I can say, without fear of contradiction—"

"Ain't it likely—"

"No it ain't, Xena." Autolycus sneered with extreme prejudice at his interrupter. "Without fear of contradiction, I tell ya,—the root of his disease is a self-humouring pride; accompanied by an accustomed tenderness not to be crossed in his fancy."

"Sounds just like you, Auto." Gabrielle had the good grace to immediately look shocked at her own words, and fell to examining the ale-jug in front of her with exaggerated interest.

"Ho hum, Amazons—why?" Leaving this abstruse question hanging in the air, and taking no notice of Xena's strange choking gestures, he carried ruthlessly on. "I fancy the primary occasions of his antagonism are probably one of three. A hard father; a peevish wench (Gods, I can feel for him there!); or thwarted ambition."

"My guess is the father." Gabrielle jumped in fearlessly, having an opinion on the subject. "Pushy, un-loving, an' strict. That's the answer."

"Setting up for a Sophist in metaphysics now, are we?" Autolycus was cutting. "Wish you well in your new career, I'm sure. Now about Aristophanus—I believe we were discussing _him_! I don't think he understood the nature of the world he was letting himself get involved with when he started out in the merchanting business as a callow youth. Then when he felt its blows they fell all the heavier because he wasn't expecting them."

"Deep, but does it have a meaning?" Xena mused, with a finger to her lips. Gabrielle giggled.

"After all these years, however, he has now foregone all but his pride." The K. Of T's continued with Lordly imperiousness. "But is yet vainglorious in the ostentation of his melancholy—"

"He's what?" Gabrielle laughed so hard her elbow slipped and her half-full tankard fell into her lap. "Aargh! Xena, help. Gimme that cloth quick. Ouurgh, I'm all wet."

Sliding his chair out of harm's way and giving the soaked casualty a broad smirk that said, as clearly as spoken words, someone had got their just comeuppance, Autolycus continued unabashed.

"When you meet him at his desk in his counting-house his composure is generally a studied carelessness; with his arms crossed, and a neglected hanging of his head and cloak." He paused to caress his moustache with a graceful flick of his fingers. "And he is as great an enemy to a hat-band, as Fortune."

"What? What?" Xena leaned over to contemplate their somewhat dusty long time friend with a jaundiced eye. "Speak Greek, won't ya."

"It's a—a—an old Cretan saying." Autolycus scrambled unconvincingly out of his own morass of words and hurriedly moved on. "I've tried talking to him; arguing with him; having board-room meetings with him; an' just plain snarling at him—all comes to the same answer in the end—NO!"

Xena and Gabrielle looked at each other across the table, and appeared to want to lean over and slap each other's open palm, but before they could carry out this plan Auto was off again.

"He quarrels at the time, and the Times; at upstarts (who are generally anyone who asks for money); and sighs and bewails the neglect he suffers from what he calls Men of Parts, amongst whom he'd like to count himself. That's the Nobility to you, Xena."

"I know well enough what ya mean, bozo." Xena gave one of her patented snarls; but as Autolycus was so accustomed to this it missed its mark entirely.

"I think he's come to look on his life like a perpetual satire." His second wind was now kicking in, with more colourful epithets yet to come. "He loves to gird and groan at the Age's Vanity, when quite clearly this very anger of his shows how much he actually esteems it himself. He affects to be much dis-pleased to see men and women merry; and wonders what they can find to laugh at."

"Gods, I often feel the same." Gabrielle pretended to hold her head in her hands. "Generally when I'm in your company, Autolycus. What? Go on, I'm listening. I am!"

"He never draws his own lips higher than a thin smile and though not yet forty, is deeply wrinkled." The Thief-General looked askance at his Amazon critic, but getting only a green-eyed innocent smirk in return, aimed the rest of his remarks at Xena. "At last, in the past few years, he's finally fallen into that most deadly melancholy—to be a bitter hater of men and women, and is the most apt companion for any mischief. Or at least that's what I was told—but never a Harpies sign of it have I had from him, for all my rhetoric."

"That's amazing, Auto." Gabrielle gasped unctuously, flicking a little smile meanwhile at Xena. "I thought it was well known by everybody you could sweet-talk a crocodile into letting you kiss it, and leave it wanting more!"

"Ee-yew, Gabrielle—that's nasty." Xena was clearly trying not to laugh out loud.

"Sticks an' stones, ladies. Do your worst, I'm impervious. Clothed in the armour of righteousness." Autolycus stuck his chin high in the air with a nonchalant bravado.

""Ha, that can't be right." Gabrielle shook her head and tapped his hand lightly. "You, righteous! Ain't that the complete oppos—"

"Anyway, where was I?" Autolycus proceeded to wrap up his lecture with a graceful gesture. "Oh, yes. Aristophanus has finally lost it, ladies. From what I could gather from the last disjointed meandering conversation I had with him yesterday, he now thinks of himself as the spark that will kindle a revolution ending in a Greek Commonwealth, and he is also the metaphorical bellows that will blow it into a fine flame. If, in the end, he turns to some other line of work it'll probably be either Priest, traitor, or mad-man. My money's on the latter."

"You ain't got any money, Auto." Xena took great pleasure in affirming this inescapable fact, much to the K. Of T's chagrin.

"No need to rub it in, warrior." Autolycus braced himself in his chair and took a determined pull at his tankard. "Where there's a will there's a way. And where there's an Autolycus, there are plenty of poor dupe—lots'a people only too willing to contribute to well-thought out business schemes. Like my latest, for instance. Shares in a mercury-mine. It's up in the hills, Macedonia way. Guaranteed to bring in 12% yearly, without fail. How much should I put you ladies down for?"

"Nothing!" Gabrielle almost screamed her condemnation of this offer, making the other nearby patrons of the Tavern's street-tables look across with interest.

"Not a damned uncia, you fool. Wha'dya take us for?" Xena laughed scornfully. "D'you know how rare that metal is, an' how difficult it is to refine? Whoever puts their savings into it will never see them again. I can tell ya what you _can_ do with your mine-shares, though. First ya roll them in a tight bundle, then lubricate them with oil of sesame; then, an' this is the entertaining part, ya sh—"

And the warrior-woman coolly went on to explain just exactly what was required.

-O-

**Note:—** An uncia was worth 1/120th of a denarius, or 1/30th of a sesterius.

-O-

**10. 'A Constable-Jailer'**

"Is that a jailer over there, on the corner of the street? The guy in the brown leather jerkin. He looks like a jailer." Autolycus's frame was taut and nervous as he inspected the distant man; rather like a deer carefully watching a passing hyena.

Tempers had calmed; more ale had been poured; and everyone was friends again: or at least as nearly so as was ever prudent with Autolycus.

"Nah, he's a horse-dealer." Xena spoke with assurance, as she gave the man a swift glance. "Ya can tell by his walk. His leather leggings. His spurs; who else wears spurs to casually walk about the town. And by the fact that the scroll he's clutching in his left hand, that's partially unrolled, is the daily list of horse-auctions out Piraeus way. A horse-dealer."

"Oh, baby, you're good." Gabrielle's tone was imbued with a rich warm approval; as was the sultry glance she aimed at the warrior from half-lowered eyelids. She _was_, after all, on her third tankard of ale.

"Yeah, yeah—merely commonsense. Let's not get above ourselves, eh. Talking of horse-dealers I had dealings with a Constable-Jailer when I first came to Athens, roundabout the Ides of last month." Autolycus mused abstractedly as he searched his memory. "Ha, it was like this—"

"Oh Gods." Xena stared at the sky, then back at her tormenter. "Must ya—"

"I was just minding my own business, y'know. Not actually doing anything indiscreet, never mind illegal." Autolycus sneered contemptuously, and poured another tankard of the rapidly dis-appearing ale. "So anyway there I was, grabbed by a couple'a thugs and marched off to the local hoosegow without so much as a bye-your-leave."*

"Has that ever happened to you before, Autolycus?" Gabrielle's tone was so perfectly frank and innocent that even Xena had to do a double-take, before recognising that gentle twitch at the corner of the blonde Amazon's lip.

"So finally," The past-master of lock-picking professed not to hear Gabrielle's remark, and went smoothly on without interrupting his flow. "they all saw sense and agreed I wasn't the crook they were after. There was some discussion about throwing me in a cell anyway, just outta spite; but eventually they had to admit there was no possible charge that would stick."

"Deja-vu." Xena muttered quietly. "What? Nothing. Go on, I'm listening—I'm sorry t'say."

"It was late evening an' nothing much was doing in the jail, so instead we all sat down like old friends and had some wine and a game of cards." Autolycus smiled happily at the memory. "Ah, rookies! What would the world be without 'em. I mean, playing cards—with me! Yeah, you guessed it—every sestersius they had between them, every one. Ah, memories!"

After a substantial time had passed, and it was obvious the handsomely moustached rapscallion was lost in a world of glorious past achievements, it fell to Gabrielle to lean quietly over and pinch his bare forearm between her fingers.

"_Yaooch_! Whassat?"

"You were talking about a jailer?" Gabrielle raised one eyebrow as he rubbed the injured spot. "Come on, it's only a flesh wound. Get on with it; the stars'll be out before you finish."

"So, like I was saying, this jailer-guy turns out to be a real card." Autolycus laughed merrily, as the facts came back to him. "The sort who thinks he's a Viceroy in the street; no-one else would stand so much on his warrant as the Senate's officer. His jurisdiction extends to the next pair of stocks; where he has a commission for the heels only, and leaves the rest of the prisoner's body at liberty."

"That's how all stocks work, idiot." Xena grunted in disgust. "You, of all people, should know, Experience, an' all that."

"He likes to have a morning draught of ale at his pet Tavern; free of course." He gave the black-clad warrior a dirty look. "But acts like a scarecrow at other Taverns, scaring customers off and apprehending any chance drunkard who doesn't stand in the Emperor's name when the jailer marches in."

"Huh, sort'a a protection racket." Gabrielle nodded understandingly. "I betcha someone could make pots of money in that game. Bears thinking about."

"Beggars fear him worse than the Justice himself, or being whipped." Autolycus nodded sagely as he glanced at his tankard, before thinking better of a re-fill. "He generally hands _them_ over to his subordinate magistrates, as being small-fry. He's a great stickler though in the tumults caused by drunks and their double-jugs of ale. Because of his position and place he ventures his head, which ends up being broke many times, to keep whole the peace—I'll give him that!"

"Ha, a warrior-jailer!" Xena laughed again. "I begin to like this character."

"He's never so much in his personal Majesty as when he takes his men on the Night-watch in the streets." Autolycus shook his head disapprovingly. "But he generally doesn't get very far. He usually spends his time sitting in his Chair of State—a shop-stall. Environed round with a guard of lances, he examines all passengers and wayfarers going along the street; ordinary innocent citizens and all. He's apparently a very careful man in his Office; but if he stays up after midnight, you'll likely take him napping."

There was a pause after he had finished this remarkable reminiscence. Xena was slumped in her chair, shaking her head slowly and looking at Autolycus as if trying to gauge just how much of what he had just told them was actually true. Gabrielle had no such scruples; she had obviously decided that if there was an Athenian prize for fairy-tales, Autolycus had just won it. She weakly lowered her head to rest on her arms on the table. All that could be seen were her blonde locks; but her shoulders continued to shake as she sniggered uncontrollably.

"Gabrielle, you need a lie down. You still haven't got over that, er, stomach upset a few days ago, y'know." Xena leaned over to pat Gabrielle's quivering shoulder gently. "Autolycus, Thieves ain't the only thing you're King of. Now take a hike."

"Gotcha. See y'all tomorrow!"

"Come on young lady." Xena grasped the Amazon under her arm and steered her towards the Inn entrance. "Ya need a break, after suffering Auto's memoirs."

"Yeah, Gods, that's so true." Gabrielle nodded, then turned to give her farewell to their well-meaning, but tedious, friend. "Bye, Auto, don't—. Oh, he's gone already. Fast worker, ain't he?"

"Yup, he's all of that." Xena nodded, trying to remember some theatrical performance she had once attended with Gabrielle. "_His coming is like to a stately barge entering port with rich and fabulous cargoes from the Orient; But his going is like the thief in the night, silent and unseen by any._"

"Ha, you remembered that play of Sophocles." Gabrielle nodded sleepily as they ascended the stairs to their quiet room. "I knew you'd like it. Wonnerful phrasing. Wunnerful poetry. Wunnerful—"

"Here we are, lady, you'll feel brighter in the morning." Xena supported the blonde Amazon over to the softly mattressed bed, where she lay wearily down. "A good night's sleep'll do ya the world of good. After all, tomorrow _is_ another day!"

-O-

**Notes:—**

Hoosegow. A jail.

'_His coming—unseen by any._' As these lines do not occur in any modern text of Sophocles' few extant plays, it must be considered a rare quote from one of his lost works!

—OOO**—**


	5. An Idle Amazon

'**An Idle Amazon'**

—OOO**—**

**11. A Self-Conceited man.**

It was one of those new-fangled plays where the actors showed their bare faces to the audience, instead of being masked. Said to allow for more expressive performances; but many of the old guard amongst the spectators that afternoon were vociferously disagreeing. To them a play was a stately rendition of classic lines from behind the anonymity of masks, as befitted the majesty and dignity of the various Gods and Goddesses represented. And this naked presentation of the actor's faces took away from the stateliness of the occasion. As Xena said while they took their seats, '_ya can't please everybody all the time_. _An' it looks like nobody's pleased here!'_

Xena, Gabrielle and Autolycus had arrived a little early; so, while they waited in the sun for the performance to start, they interested themselves in surveying those seated around them.

The open-air theatre was built into the lower slope of the Acropolis; a wide road leading to the entrance giving easy access for the populace. On a warm sunny day; with a good play on offer; and a reputable actor's company in residence, there might easily be some 3,500 spectators ranged on the stone and marble terraced benches curving in a high semi-circle round the stage-front. And it was amongst the many faces in the crowd that a great deal of interest lay.

"Anyone who's anybody is here." Autolycus had taken a sharp-eyed reconnaissance all around; twisting about unselfconsciously to examine those seated on the terraces above and behind their own. "And lot'sa people who aren't anybody are filling the spaces in between. Sort'a a definition of Democracy itself, y'know."

"Very meaningful, Auto." Gabrielle smirked lightly, as she made herself comfortable between Xena and the K. Of T's.

She bent to look after the deep canvas satchel at her feet, containing their refreshments of wine-bottles, small metal tankards, cold chicken, loaf, slices of cold ham wrapped in green leaves, and butter. _After all_, she had blithely stated as they prepared at the Inn earlier, _I need'ta keep my strength up; being an invalid, an all. The little chicken's mine; touch it an' die. The other one's for you and Xena, Auto_. _An' I've got first dibs on the ham, too; so mind your fingers, Xena, I don't take prisoners!_

It was now a few days after Gabrielle's initial recovery from her stomach upset; and, as a way to let her relax and enjoy herself Xena had offered to pay for seats at the present performance. An offer that both Gabrielle and Autolycus had jumped at.

Finally they were all at ease and had time to examine their surroundings.

"So, can ya see anyone of interest here, Auto?" Xena had looked casually about, but with no real recognition of any individuals.

"There's royalty; but only minor, not worth bothering about." The King of Thieves, on the other hand, had expertly cased the joint with an eagle eye. The eye of a debtor who always suspects his creditors are hot on his heels. "Some Princes from outta-the-way countries; Hispania, an' Northern Gaul, an—yeah, over there on the tier three above us to the right, a Prince from Britannia. Wonder what he's doin' here?"

"Woulda thought he'd a been in Rome, rather than here." Xena turned to inspect the bearded man in question, but apparently found nothing of interest and turned back with a bored shrug.

"Who's that over there, Auto?" Gabrielle pointed an outstretched arm, without a trace of shyness, across the breadth of the auditorium to the far side. "That man in the red striped toga. He's holding forth to those two men beside him as though he owned half Greece."

"Lem'me see now—ah, got him—huh, that's Philebus of Corinth." Autolycus made a gesture of contempt. "He's a blow-hard. A minor politician, who thinks the world revolves around him alone. Likes to think he's the centre of attention wherever he goes."

"Met enough o' those in our time, eh, Gabrielle?" Xena snorted with disgust. "So he ain't really here just t'watch the play; he's here to let the audience watch _him_ watching the play!"

Xena sat on Gabrielle's left, while on the Amazon's right Autolycus gracefully reclined; he could hardly be said to be engaging in so plebeian an act as merely sitting. He dearly loved making an impression, himself. Gabrielle, of course, noticed this and took a slightly unfair advantage.

"So, as one scene-stealer talking about another, what's your opinion of that guy?" Gabrielle could be cutting when she wanted.

"Hey, is that any way t'treat a friend?" Autolycus was rightly miffed. "What'd I ever do to _you_ to earn that?"

"Come on, don't be so snappy, I'm only kidding." The Amazon favoured Auto with a grin, and delved in her bag. "Here, have an orange. So, what about him, then?"

There was a pause while a family party sidled along the aisle, trampling on everyone's toes as they made their way to the far end of the curving row. Then when the three had settled again, and Xena had been induced to stop complaining under her breath about ill-mannered boors and children who stood on people's feet with malice aforethought, Autolycus took up the subject of their discussion once more.

"He's so conceited he thinks he knows himself inside out; but he doesn't at all." Autolycus twirled the orange in one hand un-noticed. "He pores over himself as if he was his own book; but he skips the harsh places, only surveying the pleasant."

"Well, that ain't exactly a crime." Gabrielle was not impressed. "You gotta do better than that, Auto. What's his motivation, for instance?"

"Look around you; both of you. What'd ya see?" The King of Thieves raised his eyebrows enquiringly at his friends.

Xena gazed at him squarely for a moment, as did Gabrielle, then the warrior took a slow measured inspection of all about her.

"A Theatre. A big Theatre, with lot'sa people sitting around waiting for the performance." Xena frowned at the slim athletic man. "What else is there to see?"

"Only that." Autolycus nodded. "But that's not how Philebus views this place. He sees the Theatre as an extension of himself, and all the people here as spectators towards him. He conceives people's thoughts as very idle, that is, focussed on him alone. You didn't see him enter the Theatre? He _marched_ in, like he walks everywhere; and, like his opinions on most matters, un-accompanied by anyone else!"

"He don't sound exactly a playful kinda guy, but nothing to get agitated over." Xena shrugged her shoulders, and glanced significantly down at the bag by Gabrielle's feet. "Sorta guy y'can take or leave. Hey, I'm kind'a thirsty, here."

"Stay thirsty, sweetheart." Amazons could be so harsh. "No refreshments till the first act finishes, an' the play hasn't started yet, you'll have noticed."

"Oh Gods. What were ya saying, Auto?"

"He generally fixes his attention solely on himself; or on others just to see or hear his own reflection in _their_ attention." Autolycus was staring intently across the width of the Theatre at his quarry. "If he's ever done anything that met with public applause I bet he re-enacts it in private just to envisage to himself the ecstasy his hearers were in at the time!"

"Now that's definitely taking congratulations too far." Xena again tried to catch the eye of the holder of the expedition's supplies; but Gabrielle knew better than to succumb to blandishments. "OK, so what're his opinions—that he becomes so protective of them?"

Autolycus glanced at Xena with a tilt of his head that said clearly he knew the inside story. Shuffling a little to stop Gabrielle's elbow stabbing his ribs, where she was bending again to contemplate the riches under her control, he carried on musingly.

"His opinions are all hard positions or definitive decrees on any subject under discussion." He waved an arm airily, as if taking in all society around them. "Such as '_thus it must be'_, or '_thus it is'_; though he won't humble his authority actually to prove it. His opinions are always singularly his own; as aloof from the thoughts of the vulgar public as he can manage. But you mustn't hope to wrest him from any opinion."

"Well, now we're getting somewhere." Xena nodded comfortably, as she insinuated her right hand subtly down towards the bag at her feet; only for an Amazon fist to slap her away unfeelingly. "Yeah, I'm beginning t'think nasty thoughts about this guy! Don't stop, Auto."

"He prefers the editors of Aristotle, before Aristotle himself; and Paracelsus before Galen, just from spite." Autolycus laughed vigorously, accidentally planting his own elbow in the Amazon's side; and getting a snarl in reply. "And whosoever with most paradox is commended, and Lipsius for his hopping style of writing, before that of either Cicero or Quintilian."

"Hey, you're gettin' kinda literary here, ain'tcha?" Xena furrowed her brow in thought, as she sorrowfully watched Gabrielle peeling an apple with a sai. "Is he really that intellectual?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Autolycus shrugged, dismissing this unassailable fact lightly. "He much pity's the World, that can have no deeper insight into him, when all he does and thinks is already public property; even to thinking that very thought about himself."

"That's what I call bein' too wrapped up in yourself an' no mistake, eh Xena?" This remark was offered at the same time as Gabrielle held out the freshly peeled apple to her consort; thereby dis-arming any possible personal reflection it might have carried. "Mind the juice, you know it'll be the devil to clean off that leather skirt."

Autolycus glanced across at the women, but his attention soon returned to the subject of his rhetoric. Once the King of Thieves had a really good vilification of someone running smoothly he was the last person to leave off prematurely.

"A flatterer is a dunce to him, for he can tell Philebus nothing but what he doesn't already know and already believes." Autolycus sighed at the heights to which human conceit can attain. "Yet he loves the flatterer too, because he is so like himself. Most men and women are merciful to his face, and let him alone; for if he be once driven from his good-humour of himself he is like two inward friends fallen out. His own bitter enemy. And such discontent would almost certainly presently make a self-murder. In sum, he's like a balloon made from a pig's bladder blown up with wind; which the least claw crushes to nothing!"

Gabrielle had been busy peeling another apple during this sarcastic diatribe, and now silently handed the dry-mouthed critic this life-saving remedy.

"Autolycus, I gotta give it to you—that's about the most detailed character-assassination I've ever heard." She shook her head in wonder, as she reached into the capacious bag for another apple. "If words were swords Philebus would be cut t'ribbons by now; an' Xena and I would be under the distressing necessity of havin' to haul you off to jail."

"Don't let yourself worry about that, Gabby." Xena suddenly snorted with laughter. "Auto would just be under the same distressing necessity to escape in a trice, like he always does! Gods, at last—are these the actors finally coming out on stage? So, Gabrielle, what'd ya say this play was all about?"

-O-

**12. A Player.**

"Actors, players, performers—whatever ya wanna call them. What makes them take up this life? Bein' sorta—you know—artificial, somebody else, on the stage."

Xena was musing out loud in the interim of a slight pause in the action taking place on the central stage area. The actors had retired to the rear while the chorus, of a dozen men and women, were lustily singing the praises of the Gods involved in the present play's action.

"Actors are strange people." Autolycus put in his quadrans-worth of opinion simply from habit; but, as neither woman took any notice, he subsided back into silence; now munching his orange.

"You nearly hit the mark, Xena." Gabrielle, on the other hand found the question so interesting she suspended demolition operations on a chicken wing to find an answer. "He—they're all men, y'know—knows the right use of the World. He comes to play a part, and so away. He certainly isn't idle, for his life is all action; and no-one needs to be more wary, for everyone's eyes are on him."

"Everyone likes t'get a piece of his action." Xena nodded understandingly. "Like a lot of Roman gladiators. When they leave their ludus in the evening there's flocks of Roman matrons vying for their attentions."

"Something like that, yeah." Gabrielle nibbled her chicken thoughtfully. "His profession has a kind of contradiction in it, for no-one is officially more dis-liked, but no-one is more applauded."

"Why's that?" Autolycus perhaps scented something relevant to himself in the air.

"It's because they—actors—are officially classed on the social ladder as beggars and vagrants." The Amazon snorted with disgust. "A sorta left-over from ancient times, that no-one's had the sense to alter yet. Of course some actors deliberately play up to their audiences with so much wit they end by making fools of themselves. No, Xena ain't looking at you, Auto—ignore her. An actor's like some painted Gentle-woman—seldom showing her real face, or in her clothes—"

"Gabrielle!" Xena was momentarily shocked, then realised the gist of what he soul-mate meant. "Oh, ya mean he wears make-up to create a character, and changes clothes to suit. Gotcha."

Two pitying glances came from the warrior's right, which she gallantly ignored by the simple expedient of pretending to munch a piece of bread while pointedly staring at the stage.

"So," The Amazon theatre-critic resumed the subject of her discourse. "He pleases the audience the better he counterfeits any character but his own. Except if he's in a cheap production where they seem almost to use straw instead of gold lace for the costumes."

"Well, that ain't the case here." Autolycus waved a proprietorial arm around, narrowly missing knocking Gabrielle's wine tankard out of her hand. "Sorry. This play has been bank-rolled by a consortium of wealthy merchants and Senators as part of the Festival. So money isn't a problem."

"Mind you, it's often said an actor acts in the street as well as on the stage." Gabrielle bent her head as she contemplated the serious question of whether to refill her wine tankard from the bottle at her feet, or take another chicken wing. The chicken wing won. "That's to say he often goes about dressed like, and acting like, a gentleman; when he's really a country yokel, if the truth be known."

This time Xena did look across at the King of T's, but as he was engrossed in studying a finely built and richly-dressed matron sitting gossiping a few rows away, he failed to notice this unspoken slander.

"The parts he plays furnish him with oaths and fine phrases, which he keeps for his own personal use and discourse." Well fortified, but still steadily munching, the Critic of Potidaea continued her verbal assault on the probably innocent. "These let him make a show of being a fashionable companion. He's tragical on the stage, as we've just seen; but he's rampant in the changing-room, swearing oaths there he never conned from a script."

"Bit of an assho—" Xena's offhand remark was remorselessly interrupted by the ongoing Amazonian critique.

"—the waiting-women and female-servant spectators are over-ears in love with him, and Ladies send for him to act in their chambers." Gabrielle smirked with intent as she made this disgraceful insinuation.

"Act in thei—ha, ha, ha!" Xena guffawed so loudly a woman in the tier of seats behind them made a shushing noise, and muttered something thankfully too low for the warrior to catch.

"The lawyers of Athens would be undone if weren't for his like." The Amazon was clearly warming up to a flight of outrageous disparagement. "He's their chief guest and employment; and the sole business that makes them rich enough to only work in the mornings, and take the afternoons off for entertainment."

Xena, who had finally collared a bit of chicken and a goblet of wine, paused to consider this character denigration with the eye of an expert. Both she and Autolycus looked at the slight figure of the Amazon between them, as Gabrielle leaned forward gazing at the stage with child-like delight flickering in her green eyes.

"Have you got all this written down somewhere, Gabby?" The King of Thieves sounded respectfully impressed.

"Yeah, you bet." Gabrielle nodded without a trace of embarrassment. "I write with a goose quill dipped in venom!"*

Xena and Autolycus exchanged dubious glances across the intervening blonde-haired head.

"The Poet is the player's only tyrant." Refreshed by chicken and white wine from Laconia the critic carried blithely on. "Particular Festival-holidays, when some plays aren't allowed to perform, he fears as much as bawds fear being restrained from their own lawful purposes. He is more afraid of not being allowed to play than of harassment by his butcher for an unpaid bill!"

The King of Thieves nodded understandingly, the while nonchalantly dipping into Gabrielle's bag for another slice of ham. An unexpected sharp tap on his knuckles with the haft of a sai made him yelp in distress, though he managed to hang on to his prize.

"He was never so much dis-credited as in one Act; which was actually a Senate Bill." Gabrielle sniggered again, while giving Autolycus a nasty look after his raid on her provisions. "It gives hostlers privilege before him or other actors; for which he abhors that Act more than a corrupt judge."

Silence reigned in the bowl of the theatre as the chorus now reached the end of their interpolation, and the actors stepped forward to the front of the stage again. The performance was about to resume.

"Ya got anything good to say about this poor fella, Gabrielle?" Xena grinned widely. "Yeah, another goblet o' wine'll go down nicely. So, ya gonna let him off the hook at the last?"

"Oh, I don't know." Gabrielle pursed her lips. Obviously it was a blow to have to finally cease castigating the almost certainly innocent actor; but it was so much fun. "To give him his due, one well-furnished actor has enough in him for five common-or-garden Gentlemen; and if he has a good physique, maybe six. You know what I mean! And for resolution he can challenge Cato!"

"How's that, Gabrielle?" Xena was interested.

"Oh," The Amazon looked from side to side at her uncomprehending listeners, then grinned with innocent mirth. "For it has always been his practice to die bravely. You know, in character—in the plays he performs!"

Both the Warrior Princess and the King of Thieves groaned as if in pain and drained their wine goblets at a stroke, in unison. Then thankfully the play began once more.

-O-

**Notes:—**

1. Cato. Marcus Porcius Cato Uticensis 95BC-46BC, known as Cato the Younger. Roman Politician and statesman. After opposing Julius Caesar, and being defeated, he committed suicide rather gruesomely. Doing so rather than live under, or accept pardon from, Caesar.

2. "goose quill dipped in venom.' A quote from the film '_Laura_', starring Clifton Webb as the acerbic Waldo Lydecker.

—OOO**—**


End file.
